Control | P. Mellark

Chapter One

"For the quarter quell our tributes shall be reaped from our existing pool of victors."
A ringing filled the air, distant screams and loud sharp breaths echoed in the distance. Even being the only one in the house she could hear the heart break from her neighbors each scream, each broken glass. But Seriea couldn't move, her heart beat was too loud, her breaths too sharp. Three years ago she fought and killed and lost and survived the hunger games, and now after finally recovering her voice to some semblance of what it once was, they want to pull her back in and kill her all over again. It didn't take long for Finnick and Annie to find their way into her house, Mags had already cried herself to sleep. Annie and Seriea held hands crying next to each other as Finnick did his best to hold them close. Every word that was shared was muted and muddled in her ears, no matter what was said she could only hear the sick satisfaction in the presidents voice. And before she knew it, she was curled with Annie against Finnick asleep on her couch, all of them would have an uncomfortable feeling in their necks in the morning, but being together for one last time in a world of their own was worth it.

The next day they each got ready in their own homes with teary eyes and heavy hearts. A knee length sea foam green milk maid dress with long laced sandles adorned the young girl, a sick feeling held her stomach as she tied the sandles secure to the back of her legs just under her knee. Gliding her fingers up the metal of her right leg felt odd, cold against the heat of her finger tips. Dancing across the designs she carved into it, tracing the vines with precision and a dazed look in her eyes. Sitting on her stool, just infront of a floor length mirror she looked up into her own eyes. Red rimmed and bloodshot brought out the pale grayish blue. A deep breath and a roll of her shoulders has her clearing her face of the dread she felt. As she finished tying her bangs out of her face in two bands with a small braid falling down in front of her ears. As she held the handle to her front door she took one last deep breath.
"Showtime." Her voice was soft and quiet as she opened the door with a soft smile. Finnick stood with Annie and Mags at the end of her walk waiting with different expressions. Annie clung to Finnick and once Seriea was close enough she clung to her aswell. The walk through town was slow and unreal. People whispered and sent them different looks of gratitude, jealousy, and pity. Finnick had his signature smirk as he leisurely led the women to the square.
Being on stage in front of the district like this felt odd, everyone staring with blank faces. Seriea didn't move, she didn't breath to loud, she didn't blink. She never liked the escourt assigned to them, he was loud and obnoxious with unusually bad breath. He often wore bright reds and greens and fake long blue hair that he often tugged and tripped on when walking. He even had a stupid name, in her opinion, Poshell Seymour.
"As always, Ladies first," His sickening nasely voice rang through Seriea's ears and pulled her back into the present, "Annie Cresta!"
A gasp ripped through Seriea as she heard the girl sob, grabbing Mag's raising had Seriea stepped forward, "I volunteer."
Her voice echoed through the square, as soft and tranquil as the town rembered.
"Seriea Emerson." Poshell smirked into the microphone and watched as the short girl stepped to her place, with no tears and without looking back at the two women she found a true family in she faced the crowd with a soft unwavering smile. She could feel Finnick staring at her, moving his gaze between her and Annie and Mags. And just as quickly his name was called and he stepped up next to her with the ever charming smirk. Once he stepped up her touched her elbow gently, she faced him and instantly tears sprang to her eyes, they pulled each other into a hug as he whispered reassurances to her. And before they knew it, they were ushered into the train and on their way back to the capitol.
The ride was odd, they spent their time watching the games they had seen in previous years and the reaping of the other districts, often eating and avoiding our escort we found new ways to distract and abuse our time. And arriving at the capitol was even grander than the first time the girl had stepped foot onto the game board.
With a smile and skip in her step she followed Finnick to the tower that hosted the victors. Once inside their floor, her smile dropped and her shoulders slumped. She shuffled over to the plush white couch and undid her shoes before removing her leg and relaxing into the cushions.
Finnick took to his room, as he often did, alone. Whether he went in to cry, scream, sleep or anything was a mystery to the girl, she never questioned him, never prodded into his past times. Before she knew it she had fallen asleep on the couch, curled up with her face pressed into a fuzzy blue pillow.
Screams around her snapped her to action, she ran forward towards the cornucopia with shallow fast breaths. Children around her screamed and fell with sobbs and the sound of their own demise surrounding those still living. Seriea kept her eyes forward, not looking to see who was dying and who was killing. She ran and ran, but it never seemed like the metal horn was getting closer until she was inside, hiding behind a few crates holding a hand over her mouth as she heaved labored breaths, clutching a trident in her hand and tightening a stuffed full back pack against her back. A tapping drew her focus and had her holding out the weapon, ready for what ever came at her. The tapping grew louder, until it was the only thing she heard, no screaming, no cries, nothing but the tap, tap, tap, coming around the crates. Just as the face of a boy she'd never forget started to peak around the corner. Her eyes shot open and a rough, sharp gasp tore through her throat.